


The Fall

by vinyl_octopus



Series: Tumblr prompt fills [3]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mxdp asked: If you like another CP prompt... Douglas and Martin stumble into the beginnings of a relationship together. To Martin, falling in love with his friend is the best thing that's happened after getting his pilot license. But Douglas finds it difficult. To his own surprise he loves and desires Martin deeply but he is afraid of losing the love and respect of his daughter for dating a man, and risking his own heart to be broken a fourth time. Can Martin convince Douglas to stay, or does he let him go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," Martin whispered against his lips. Douglas could feel the other man's shy smile as they kissed - snogged really - goodbye at his front door. 

"I'm not sure I’m inclined to let you go yet, Captain," he growled, pulling the younger man closer with two hands planted firmly on his buttocks. 

The shy smile became a grin, Martin making a token protest even as he clutched at Douglas's shirtfront and groaned, flicking his tongue into his first officer's mouth. 

It was another ten minutes before Martin actually extricated himself, delightfully dishevelled and panting. "I have to go, Douglas. I've a van job in the morning and I have to get it finished before the flight." 

Short of breath himself, Douglas finally relented, giving Martin one last chaste-ish parting kiss before unlatching the door and letting his lover leave. Martin trotted down the front path, turning at the gate to blow a flirty kiss before getting into his van and (eventually, after a choking start) driving away. 

 

As the sound of the clapped out engine retreated into the distance, the cool night finally penetrated Douglas's passion-blind fog. He blinked hard and the world seemed to sharpen and ice over. He swallowed hard as he closed the door. 

It had been a mistake to let things get this far. 

 

***

 

It had all started innocently enough. After Helena had left, Douglas caught himself once too often staring at his stash of Talisker with intent. Knowing that path a little too well, he made himself get rid of it – cursing the loss of all that potential income/bartering fodder – and began to make an effort to seek out his friends. 

He was a little surprised to realise how few of those there were. Each of his divorces had led to a splitting of assets and in every case, his ex-wife seemed to get the mutual friends. The few friends he’d had of his own were a mix of former colleagues – most of whom had drifted away after his disgraceful departure from Air England – or the kind who came with a certain level of influence and expectation – excellent for helping pass the odd extra bit of cargo through customs, but not without cost. Not any kind of real friend. 

The only people, he realised, that he spent any reasonable sort of time with were his fellow MJN crewmates…. and his daughter. 

His beautiful daughter, Emily. Who thought her father was the absolute bee’s knees and had him perched on a pedestal so high, Douglas would need a parachute if he were ever knocked off. 

That she loved and believed in him despite the fact that he and her mother had split, and despite watching him clamber out of the wreckage of two further marriages, was a miracle Douglas was unwilling to question. Or compromise. In the immediate aftermath of Helena’s betrayal, Emily’s love and her bubbly phone calls were the only thing getting him up in the mornings. He would not repay that by letting her see her idol wobble. 

So it was to the MJN gang that he reached out. Not blatantly, of course, but he could see Carolyn wasn’t fooled. After the first time he suggested they all get together after a long day sitting around the cabin on standby, Carolyn took him aside and point-blank asked him if he was drinking again. 

His answer evidently wasn’t as reassuring as he’d hoped, and he soon found he’d been invited to the Knapp-Shappey residence for dinner. It would probably have been less awkward if Herc hadn’t been there, but the lack of knowing quips regarding Douglas’s presence was even more irritating than if they’d been at each other’s throat. Not that there was much opportunity for that, given all the bickering Carolyn and Herc were doing between themselves. Douglas had never felt more like a charity case in his life and ignored Arthur’s crestfallen expression as he excused himself after the main course. 

But Martin had been a different story. They’d always got along reasonably well, even if a large part of the time was spent with Martin stoically putting up with Douglas’s relentless teasing… but when it came down to it, he somehow knew he could count on Martin. And he was right. When Douglas casually suggested they “grab a meal” at the local pub after work, Martin had only paused for a moment to assess Douglas’s motivation before calmly agreeing and not making an issue of it. 

Douglas suspected Martin had guessed more than Douglas had explained – after all, he’d met Helena, had heard Douglas wax lyrical about their perfect romance… and not long afterwards, lament its passing – but to Martin’s credit he simply gave Douglas what he needed: familiar, friendly company and a distraction. 

 

It had worked brilliantly for the best part of a year. Neither Helena nor alcohol had registered as even the faintest blip on Douglas’s synapses for that whole time; Martin and Douglas’s friendship flourished and they found they even argued less at work. 

It was all perfect, until a month ago, when their regular late night take away and TV session unexpectedly resolved with frantic kissing and groping on Douglas’s sofa.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin whistled merrily as he loaded the last box into the van and forced the back closed with a whining _thunk_. He patted the van’s side consolingly as he climbed into the driver’s side, settling comfortably into the well-worn, slightly-too-bouncy seat and turning the key. For once the engine chugged almost immediately to life. Martin checked his reflection in the mirror as he gave the van a chance to warm up. He blinked a little at the embarrassingly broad grin he hadn’t realised he was sporting and rubbed a slightly rueful hand over the unmistakeable beard burn adorning his chin. Not much he could do about it now. 

Three hours later, the van had been unloaded and he’d made it back to Parkside Terrace for a quick shower and change into his uniform, before making his way to the airfield. He was whistling again as he strode into the Portakabin. 

“Gooood afternoon!” He finished his greeting with an uncharacteristic Frisbeeing of his cap onto his desk, beaming at Arthur, who was busy creating what looked like bunting made from flags of the world. 

“Hi Skip! Gosh, you’re in a good mood!” 

“I’m glad someone is.” Carolyn was scowling from the doorway of her office, freshly brewed coffee in one hand. “Make sure it’s a quiet and productive one. Flight plan. File. Now.” The door slammed shut behind her. 

The familiar sound of Douglas’s tread on the Portakabin stairs was enough to bolster Martin in the face of such deflating scorn, but his renewed enthusiasm was quashed by the thunderous expression on his first officer’s face when he entered. 

Arthur’s cheery greeting was met with a gruff snarl, and Douglas didn’t even acknowledge Martin as he threw his belongings onto the sagging office couch and stormed into the kitchenette. 

Stung, Martin’s face dropped with the rest of him as he sank into his desk chair and buried himself in the pre-flight paperwork. The sound of Douglas making a violent coffee – just the one, it seemed – clanged jarringly from the kitchen as Martin’s good mood pooled around his shoes. 

Having apparently taken the worst of his fury out on the teaspoon he’d hurled into the sink, Douglas lumbered back into the office and sipped sullenly in the corner while Martin did his best to finish his work without flinching. 

Carolyn threw her office door open. “What are you two doing lazing about in here? We’re leaving in half an hour. If the flight plan’s done, get on and do the walk-round. Arthur….” She looked at the lopsided bunting her son was optimistically holding up against the window. “No.” She disappeared back into her office. 

Martin hadn’t dared look up from his desk. 

“Oh, for God’s sake. I’ll do it.” Douglas seethed his way around the cabin, depositing his mug in the kitchen and gathering up the bag and jacket he’d dropped on the way in. 

He disappeared onto the airfield. 

“Wow,” said Arthur, contemplatively rolling the bunting back up. “Douglas seems rather…” 

“Yes. He does.” Martin released the clench he had on the pile of papers he had on his desk. I’d better just…” He hit send on the flight plan then grabbed his own hat and bag and made his way out to the plane. 

 

“Douglas?” Martin touched his first officer’s shoulder hesitantly as he stowed his possessions and manoeuvred his way into his own seat in the flight deck. 

Douglas heaved a sigh before brushing the fingers on his shoulder with his own. “I’m sorry, Martin.” 

Martin’s own lungs loosened a bit, breathing becoming a bit easier for the first time since Douglas had arrived. He folded his hands in his lap. “What’s the matter?” 

“I just had a call from Emily. Her mother’s going out of town with her ‘new man’, so Emily’s coming to stay for the weekend.” 

“But that’s… I mean, that’s great, isn’t it? You love spending time with her.” 

“Yes, of course, but we had plans.” 

Martin waved a hand carelessly in the air. “That doesn’t matter, surely? Your daughter comes first, I know that. God, I’m always putting you off for van jobs. N-not that Emily is like a van job… but… oh, you know what I mean.” 

“She’ll want to go to Duxford.” 

“I—” 

“To the _air show_.” Douglas clarified. 

It was a trip they’d been planning for months. Even before everything between them had…changed. Martin had been looking forward to it – not least because Douglas had managed to avail himself of two gold pass tickets for the air show. It had been years since Martin had been able to go to any of the air shows at all, and never so extravagantly. 

Still, there was no reason to give up the outing entirely. 

“Maybe we could all go tog—” Douglas’s flat stare stopped that thought and Martin felt himself flush with humiliation. “No. No probably not. Of course. That would be… Okay. Well that’s… Never mind.” Martin busied himself checking the controls and starting the pre-flight checks, determined to ignore the sick feeling in his throat.


	3. Chapter 3

“You should have invited Martin,” said Emily, admiring her colourful trainers in the sun as she and Douglas meandered back to the car. 

“What? Why?” 

The slightly panicked lilt in Douglas’s tone caused his daughter to frown up at him. “You’re always saying how obsessed he is with Duxford and planes. Worse even than me.” She grinned, squeezing his hand. “You’re friends now, aren’t you? Properly friends? He came to dinner with us that time. I thought maybe you’d have invited him today.” 

Before Douglas could reply, she’d pulled her hand out of his and run over to a low brick wall, conversation forgotten. Jumping up easily, she proceeded to balance her way along, arms outstretched like a trapeze artist… 

Or – he watched as she jumped off and ran through the grassy field at the end, arms still wide – like an aeroplane. 

She was right. He’d almost forgotten that she and Martin had already met. Back when their meet-ups were purely platonic, but after the initial Helena/Talisker danger period had passed, Douglas had thought nothing of including Martin when a visit from Emily happened to coincide with their pre-existing plans. 

It was different now, though. He felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. His daughter didn’t need to be dealing with questions about her father’s sexuality – bad enough she had seen the appalling state of his love life as it was. And if her mother was dating again, Emily certainly didn’t need to be getting used to _two_ new parental paramours at the same time. Especially not when… well… when either said paramour could be off the scene at any moment. 

 

***

 

Martin poked at his lukewarm potato before setting it carefully aside on his bedside table and flopping back on his lumpy mattress so he could stare out of the window above the bed. The sky was still bright blue and not a wisp of cloud to be seen. He heaved a sigh and rolled over, pressing his cheek into the sun-warmed duvet. From this angle his Red Arrows Official Wall Calendar seemed to loom over the desk at the foot of the bed. The optimistically circled and highlighted _“air show w/ Douglas”_ notation was mockingly cheery against the scrawled biro reminding him of van jobs and flights on every other day. He gave himself a mental, and then a physical, slap and sat up. 

There’d be other air shows, and other dates. And Douglas had been right not to include Martin today – Monday’s hiccup aside, he hadn’t quite mastered the art of spending time with Douglas and not beaming like a lovestruck fool and he thought Douglas might be nearly as bad. Usually. There was no way Emily wouldn’t have spotted the shift and he knew Douglas wasn’t quite ready to have that discussion with her. For now, Martin had an unexpected weekend off, and he really ought to be making the most of it instead of sitting around getting maudlin. 

He took his discarded lunch downstairs to the kitchen to wrap and save in the fridge for later, then gathered together a bucket and meagre car washing supplies to give the Icarus van a much-needed clean. 

 

With the van’s radio providing an upbeat soundtrack, he soon washed away his earlier sulk – almost literally, having liberally soaked his shirt and jeans as much as the van – and was actually singing along by the time a piercing wolf whistle alerted him to the return of his youthful housemates as they wandered past the van. 

“Look at you, Captain Carwash!” Martin looked up from drying his face on the hem of his own T-shirt, chamois in-hand, as Bethenny gave him a cheeky wink and slid something onto the dashboard through the half-open passenger door. “You can thank me later!” 

A vague sense of embarrassment settled around Martin as he watched her run inside after the others, but he was focused on wiping the van down to prevent water streaks so he didn’t think much of it until later. 

 

“Not bad at all, Captain Crieff.” Douglas’s voice was a low and unexpected rumble when he called on Sunday evening. 

That voice did _things_ to him. Martin couldn’t help that his confused response was more of a moaning squeak. “W-what are you on about, Douglas?” 

He could almost hear the cranks winding Douglas’s eyebrow to the arched position. “Your little photo shoot, Martin. Didn’t know you had it in you, but if you wanted to let me know what I was missing…. consider me… _informed_.” 

“What? What do…what are…What photo shoot?” Even as he asked, Martin’s stomach was sinking…. a sharp bell of laughter carried from downstairs and he suddenly remembered the previous day. Collecting his phone from the dashboard – despite having left it in the back corner of the van while he was washing it down. 

“Uh… hang on a minute, Douglas.” Martin pulled the phone away from his ear and scrabbled with it until he found the photo album. He groaned. Three shots of him… rather blurry since this was a phone for practicality rather than gadgetry… but that was definitely him. Sweaty and soapy, his hair a frizzing mess in the first. Shirt hiked up to wipe his face in the second, pallid stomach and bony ribs on awkward display. The last was an action shot. He was clearly shocked by the students’ sudden arrival, and the picture had captured him twisting blindly towards the camera, his cheeks flushed from the embarrassment of being caught singing. 

He hadn’t even seen Bethenny take the shots. He fumbled with the setting on the phone, accidentally hanging up on Douglas. Three picture texts sent direct to "Sky God" late Saturday afternoon. He swallowed, mortified. And ever so slightly concerned about his phone plan. 

No doubt Douglas was going to have a field day with this. 

The phone rang in his hand. 

“Well, that was rather rude.” 

“Sorry, Douglas! I didn’t…that wasn’t…” 

“At ease, sir.” Douglas had his most syrupy voice on. “I rather thought you hadn’t posed for those. But I can’t say I am disappointed.” 

“I—” 

“Martin. I _liked_ them.” 

“I– really?” 

“Not quite what I was expecting as I settled down to tea with my daughter, but I thought I might set the second one as my new phone wallpaper…” 

“You wouldn’t—” 

“No. Martin, I wouldn’t.” Just gentle teasing now. “But I _would_ rather like to see you. I hope it’s not too presumptuous, especially after this weekend, but I’m ah… I’m outside. If you think you might be willing to let me in?” 

“Oh! Of course. I’ll just…” Martin flung open his bedroom door and manoeuvred his way down the tiny ladder-cum-stairwell one-handed. 

Douglas was standing patiently on the doorstep, making a show of listening to Martin’s approach over the phone – even though Martin had been too distracted to actually speak as he stumbled to the front door. 

“Douglas!” Martin found himself surprised, despite himself. 

Douglas pointedly switched off his mobile, watching as Martin belatedly stopped talking into his own and shoved it in his pocket. 

“Come in, come in!” Martin backed himself against the open door and waved Douglas in agitatedly. “Do you… would you like a tea or anything?” 

“Tea? No, I don’t think so, sir.” Douglas waggled a gift bag at Martin. “I thought maybe we could just…” he glanced into the lounge room, which was populated with lolloping students. 

“Ah. Let’s… shall we just go upstairs?” 

“By all means, lead the way, Captain.” 

They’d made it to the third floor before Bethenny’s wolf whistle rang through the air, proving the acoustics of the foyer to be quite impressive. Martin flushed as Douglas chuckled, only relaxing once they pulled the attic door closed behind them. 

Douglas dropped the gift bag on Martin’s desk then turned to face Martin, still fidgeting by his bookcase. “Martin, I wanted to apologise.” 

“No, it’s f—” 

“It’s not fine. I was beastly to you on Monday and we haven’t really talked properly since.” 

Martin dug his teeth into his lower lip as Douglas crossed the room towards him. 

“I’m sorry, Martin. I was… thrown by Emily’s call, and it made me think about… well a lot of things. I’m afraid my mood rather got away from me. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. And I… I shouldn’t have cancelled this weekend.” 

“I understand, Douglas, really.” Douglas was rubbing his hands up and down Martin’s arms by now and they were staring into each other’s eyes. Martin looped his arms around Douglas’s waist. “I’ll never come between you and your daughter, Douglas. You know that. Never think you have to choose between us. I understand you will choose her, every time.” 

Douglas looked stricken and squeezed Martin in a hug, rocking them from side to side in an almost-dance that spun them slowly around. “Emily rather took me to task yesterday. She was appalled that I hadn’t invited you along.” He stared over Martin’s shoulder and Martin swallowed, realising this put his lovingly marked up calendar in full view. 

“She was right,” Douglas continued, pressing a firm kiss to Martin’s forehead and releasing him. He swiped the bag off the desk and by the time he turned back he’d regained some of his usual teasing look. “We decided you needed a present, to make up for it.” He handed the bag over. 

Martin sat on the edge of his bed as he pulled the bag open, glancing sidelong at Douglas to evaluate whether or not this was going to be a joke. 

Douglas sat next to him, running a cautious hand through the auburn curls and growling faux-seductively in his ear as Martin pulled out another pair of gold air show passes….and a pair of aviator goggles. 

Douglas nipped his earlobe before he could take offence. 

“Emily rather fancies you as a Biggles type, I think. All dashing and derring-do.” He ran a line of kisses along Martin’s jaw. 

Martin relaxed into the affection, running the strap of the goggles through his fingers. His voice was already husky as he asked, “And how do you fancy me?” 

“Me?” Douglas pushed him back down onto the bed, plucking the goggles out of Martin’s hands and devouring his lips in a breath-stealing kiss as he ran a hand up his belly. “I fancy you any which way I can have you…. Captain Carwash.”


	4. Chapter 4

Douglas woke the next morning to find Martin sprawled across him, nose whuffling in his armpit as he breathed deeply in sleep. Douglas grinned to himself and wrapped his own arm a bit closer around Martin, pushing a kiss into the ginger curls. Martin made a happy sound and Douglas found himself caught by an unexpected wave of affection that rolled up from his toes and would have knocked him off his feet entirely if he'd been standing. He shut his eyes as the sensation seemed to break at the top of his head and flow back, leaving behind the cold certainty that _this_ was finite. 

Without thinking, Douglas wrapped both arms around his lover, holding tight as his heart raced; terror washing over him in the wake of love’s warmth. Martin let out an indignant squeak at the unexpected crush as Douglas broke out in a clammy sweat and squeezed his eyes tighter shut against an inevitable and familiar future. 

Long nights alone at his flat. 

Martin rolling away from him in bed. 

Vicious arguments. 

_Martin leaving_. 

Douglas let out a shaky breath as Martin gradually woke and tightened his own arms around Douglas. He pressed a moaning kiss into Douglas's chest, rolling and wriggling until he was lying full length on top of him. 

He rolled his hips languidly and gave Douglas a lethargic smirk. "That was rather a nice way to wake up." 

Douglas was still dizzy with torment as he opened his own eyes, gazing up into mischievous silver blue. He managed a sickly grin as Martin shifted deliberately and was surprised to find he was hard despite the seismic shock of emotions. 

He tipped his head up for a kiss and Martin complied, simultaneously snaking a befreckled arm out to retrieve the lube from the bedside table. 

Douglas contented himself with running his own hands up and down his lover’s lithe back, reassuring himself he was _there_ while Martin slicked then both up, one-handed, and started to move once again. 

Slow, sumptuous morning sex was clearly what Martin, barely awake, had in mind. He held them both loosely in one fist and was rocking gently, leisurely, peppering Douglas’s face with light kisses and nuzzles. But something in Douglas had short circuited. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn't kiss deep enough. He wanted to swallow Martin whole: body, mind, soul; keep him so close he could never leave. He kissed and grabbed frantically and Martin drew back concerned as Douglas almost sobbed into his mouth, but Douglas clutched him closer and wrapped a leg around his calf for good measure. 

Martin sank down, tightening his grip and moving faster, trying to give Douglas what he wanted. 

“Oh god, oh, _Martin_ I _lo—_ ” 

He let Martin swallow his words in a deep kiss as orgasm finally took them both. 

 

Too soon, too dangerous to say those words aloud. 

 

***

 

Martin had been kind enough to say nothing about Douglas’s emotional outbreak this morning. After a brief lie-in, Douglas had cleaned up enough to go back home so he could shower properly and get ready for the day’s flight. 

It should have been difficult to leave Martin, affectionate and relaxed as his lover was, half wound in their well-used sheets, his normally regimented curls delightfully dishevelled. But Douglas was too raw and shaken. He managed to wrangle back enough of the Richardson charm to fool Martin, but after leaving his captain with a promising kiss goodbye, he couldn’t get out into the cool dawn fast enough. 

The fresh air helped to clear the cobwebs, and he drove back to his own flat with the windows down to expedite the process – but it didn’t air out the tight knot in his gut. A luxuriously long, hot shower went further in easing some of the tension in his neck and shoulders – but hard as he tried (and he nearly drew blood trying), he couldn’t scrub the tickle of vulnerability off his skin. Even the dry toast he choked down with his coffee couldn’t scrape the strain of worry from the back of his throat. 

Standing in front of the mirror, he tightened his tie and checked that the implacable mask of the sky god was firmly in place. Then he grabbed his armour of jacket, cap, and flight bag and headed outside to the Lexus. 

 

***

 

It was a pattern that was becoming a little too regular, Martin thought, watching Douglas surreptitiously from his side of the flight deck and taking in how drawn he looked. All passion and desire when they were alone together, over the past few weeks Douglas had been noticeably drawing away after particularly heartfelt interludes. 

They’d never explicitly discussed keeping their relationship secret, but Douglas was understandably reluctant to tell his daughter, and Martin thought it was probably understood that they’d keep it private, if not completely under wraps, at work… at least at first. Still, he thought maybe they'd passed that period by now, and he was certain Carolyn had figured it out. She might not actually have started booking double rooms, but they were sharing twin rooms a lot more often… and neither of them had bunked in with Arthur for quite some time. 

If _he’d_ noticed, Douglas must have done. And yet, the closer they became, the more Douglas seemed to pull away afterwards. Whatever had clicked between them to allow the romance in the first place seemed to be poisoning their friendship. Where once they had bantered with ease, even with flirting innuendo and brushing touches, now it was a struggle to get Douglas even to look at him in the flight deck. 

For the first time since this had started, Martin looked at his best friend and wondered if Douglas was ashamed of them. 

Of him. 

He thought back to that morning and waking up in Douglas’s tight embrace — there was no way he could have mistaken Douglas’s feelings in that moment… or his aborted declaration — and then to a couple of hours later in the Portakabin when Arthur’s cheery observation to Douglas that “you and Skip have been spending a lot of time outside work together” was met with the sort of blisteringly sarcastic retort that left Arthur stuttering an apology and Martin feeling small and leaden. 

Carolyn had watched the entire proceeding with a considering expression but had left them to sort it out. 

Naturally they hadn’t even mentioned it again. 

Martin let out an inadvertent sigh. Douglas (finally) glanced over and gave him a smile that barely reached his face, never mind his eyes. “Books with cheese in the title, I’ll go first…” 

Martin gave his own watery smile of agreement and adjusted his hands on the controls as he swallowed his unease.


	5. Chapter 5

They were overnighting in Venice before bringing their passengers back home to dreary old Blighty. Martin steeled himself for an awkward night out with Carolyn and Arthur, but when he emerged from his shower, changed and ready for the evening, Douglas informed him that Carolyn – and thus Arthur – were meeting up with old family friends for dinner. It would just be the two of them. 

Douglas’s temper seemed to have improved once they’d landed; he’d given Martin a soft smile when they left the hotel for the evening and Martin had subsequently relaxed enough to be convinced that perhaps he had misread the atmosphere in the flight deck. 

But as they wandered down the scruffy street towards the nearest dimly lit “restaurant strip”, Martin realised “improvement” was relative. Douglas now seemed maudlin rather than edgy and though he’d warmed up a few degrees, he was still distant. 

Martin reached out a hand to clasp Douglas’s, eager to offer comfort and reassurance against whatever was bothering his first officer. 

It was surely pure coincidence that Douglas raised his hand to point out a promising-looking café just as Martin’s fingers feathered the first touch. 

Martin maintained that private conviction even as the cold brightness of the streetlamp caught the look of sadness on Douglas’s face as he turned to peruse the menu, hands hidden safely in his trouser pockets. Pulling his own hand belatedly back, Martin settled for folding his arms and tucking his hands securely in his armpits, before realising that made him look either defensive or cold, and instead clasping them in an iron grip behind his back. 

 

Their leisurely meals of lasagne (Martin) and veal (Douglas) were made slightly less stilted by the unexpected (and unexpectedly good) guitarist playing classical music in the back corner of the café, and the cosy lighting. Probably also by the two glasses of red wine Martin downed with his food. Not enough to get drunk, not really, but enough to relax. 

Douglas refrained from comment, even though Martin hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol in front of Douglas for over a year. 

The walk back to the hotel was less fraught, at least to Martin’s mind. They walked companionably shoulder to shoulder, and if they were quiet with each other it was, Martin decided, the comfortable kind one felt with someone close. 

They made it back to their hotel room without incident and, once they’d both changed into their pyjamas, Martin turned to give Douglas a goodnight kiss. 

He felt, rather than saw him pull back. 

Douglas’s hand was light on Martin’s elbow. “Carolyn’s room is right next door,” he whispered, squeezing lightly to indicate the room closest to Martin’s arm. “And Arthur’s on the other side.” He cocked his head to the room on the other side of theirs. 

He gave another gentle squeeze and clambered into his bed under the window. 

“Right. Right…okay.” Martin was still standing in the middle of the room between the two beds, the sudden chill nothing to do with being barefoot on the worn carpet and everything to do with the sick feeling in his stomach. The walls were thin and hardly soundproof… but they weren’t _that_ thin. “I wasn’t going to… Never mind.” 

He let out a sigh and rubbed a hand over his roiling guts, mentally adding another unspoken relationship rule to the growing list in his head. _No touching, even in private, when working._

 

***

 

The flight home was as quiet as the first. Martin had a splitting headache that he blamed on the cheap red wine … rather than the tense band of emotion that was crushing his forehead. 

Arthur compensated by communicating in Very Loud Whispers. Carolyn was looking increasingly thin-lipped and Martin was unsure whether that was because she believed her captain had, to all intents and purposes, admitted to getting drunk enough to have a hangover, or because she could see there was still a personnel issue on the flight deck. 

 

***

 

“Drivers! New client. What are you doing a week from Thursday?” 

“I’ve got a—” 

“My daughter is—” 

Carolyn held up a hand for silence. “—Wrong answers. You’re flying a _very_ rich executive and his family to San Francisco and you will then be at his beck and call for flights across the US for the whole of that week.” 

“ _Carolyn_!” Martin yelped, “I can’t possibly do that. I’ve got _six_ van jobs booked that week. I can’t possibly afford to cancel all of them.” 

“Not my problem, Martin. I’m not running your business, I’m running mine. You work for me, ergo, you must be available to fly the plane. It’s not my fault if your little sideline can’t be done remotely.” 

“ _Sideline_? It’s—” 

“—Martin’s issues aside,” Douglas drawled, “I shan’t be available in any case. If you’d checked the wall chart you’d have seen I’m away that week.” 

“Piffle. I’ve told you before, the only things on the wall chart set in stone are things _I_ put there. I’m sorry, Douglas, but whatever jolly little plans you had will have to be rearranged. If we make this client happy his colleagues may follow. I can’t – _we_ can’t – afford to turn him down.” Carolyn’s about-turn and slamming office door indicated the discussion was at an end. 

Martin let out a groan of despair before collecting his phone and Icarus appointment book and, after sharing an empathy-filled glance with his first officer, slinking out to his van to make a collection of unprofessional, apologetic and grovelling phone calls. In private. Again. 

He left Douglas the office to make his own unhappy call to his daughter and ex-wife. 

 

He’d spent a half hour on the phone….and another half hour frantically rebalancing his accounts and trying to work out how he would afford rent _and_ food for the rest of the month since only one of his six customers had been willing or able to change dates. It had been the most work he’d had booked in ages, since he’d been alternating his spare time between van jobs and seeing Douglas. 

When he’d done all he could, Martin scuffed his way back into the Portakabin. 

Douglas was sitting slumped at the desk, staring into the distance at nothing. Arthur was hovering at Douglas’s elbow with a steaming cup of coffee, clearly uncertain about actually putting it on the desk. The reason for this hesitation was clear from the jumble of papers and pens that had quite obviously been swept off the desk and onto the floor in what Martin could only assume was a fit of now-spent rage. 

“Did you… did you get it sorted?” Martin made his way to his own desk to put down his phone and book with one eye on Douglas as if he were sneaking past a wild animal. 

“Yes.” Douglas’s voice was slow and heavy. He let out a sigh that seemed frosted with the dust of hell and reversed his slump so he was reclined defeatedly in the chair. 

Arthur hadn’t lost the worried look on his face, but he seemed to take this as an indication the danger period had passed, putting the coffee within Douglas’s reach and then stepping back towards the room’s settee, wringing his hands. 

“Right.” Martin stood behind the chair at his desk, darting his gaze around the office, looking for inspiration. He dug his fingers into the cushioned back of the chair in front of him. “Well, that’s…good?” 

“Emily will now be staying with her grandparents for the full 3 weeks of the holiday. While her mother goes to France. With ‘Peter’. To get engaged. So, sure, yes…all ‘good’.” Douglas’s voice was a dull monotone. He had his eyes shut, face pointed at the ceiling. 

Martin’s heart clenched around a fistful of needles. Douglas’s tone might not have explicitly revealed his feelings, but combined with the furrowed brow it was enough. He let go of the chair and Douglas opened his eyes, watching as Martin moved around behind him to squeeze his shoulder in sympathy. 

For a moment, Douglas seemed to sink into it, shutting his eyes again and tipping his head towards Martin’s hand … then his eyes flew open and he executed a full body flinch that caused his chair to spin and run over Martin’s toes, completely distracting Martin from whatever comforting words Arthur was trying to come up with. 

Douglas looked mortified. “Sorry, Martin… I um… I didn’t see you.” 

Martin stepped back, holding his hand to his chest as if the contact had actually burned. “You just watched me walk over to you,” he said quietly, staring at the floor. 

“Martin, I—” 

Martin shook his head and held up a hand, in a rather less domineering manner than Carolyn might, then stumbled through the Portakabin door.


	6. Chapter 6

“Douglas, said Arthur carefully. Did you really not notice Skip? 

Having covered his face with his hands to blot out not just the image of his lover’s stricken face but the sight of him practically running out the door, Douglas slid them an inch or so down to the bridge of his nose so he could stare sightlessly ( _soullessly_ ) at the other side of the room. 

“Only…I thought you two were…” 

“What?” Douglas knew his voice was sharp, even muffled behind his hands. He still wasn’t looking at Arthur. 

“Well, you know. Together.” 

Douglas dropped his hands, but remained facing the back wall of the kitchenette. 

“Why did you think that?” 

“Ipswich, Douglas.” As if it were obvious. 

“Oh, not that sodding cour—” 

“No, no. When we were in Ipswich. You know. With the swimming and the smoke and everything. The way you were with each other then. Compared to the way you’ve been for the last… well for a while.” 

Douglas finally turned to look at his deceptively astute steward. 

Arthur shrugged, clearly wary at the way Douglas was looking at him. “You both just seemed a lot happier for ages. And Skip was sort of…glowy – you know, like people get when they’re in lo—” Something on Douglas’s face must have suggested Arthur detour from that path. “Anyway. He was smiling a lot more. And you were being…nicer to him. It was brilliant.” 

Arthur looked down, fiddling at the cuffs of his shirt. “Mum said he’s probably found a girlfriend, but the thing is, Douglas, I don’t think he has time.” He glanced up. That shrewd expression had no business on Arthur’s face. “I mean, he’s always working with his van, but for ages, whenever Mum rang either of you about work, he was with you. So I just…assumed…” 

Douglas gaped. He thought Carolyn might have worked it out, but he hadn’t counted on Arthur and his dubious people skills. 

“Have you broken up then?” 

“What?” Wrong footed again. His linguistic powers seemed to have escaped him. 

Arthur looked miserable. “Just. You haven’t been talking to each other much. And just now…” Arthur bent to pick up some of the pages Douglas had thrown to the floor. “It just… it seemed a bit like when I broke up with Mindy. We’re still friends and everything, of course, coz Mindy’s brilliant, but at first, because we weren’t fighting or anything, I just kept forgetting that I wasn’t allowed to be near her any more. And sometimes shed forget too… and then she’d. Well. She’d react like you did just then, Douglas.” 

Arthur was talking to the papers more than Douglas now, stacking them neatly. He didn’t meet Douglas’s eye until he actually placed them back on the desk with the newly re-canned tin of pens. 

“If you haven’t broken up, I think you should tell Skip. I don’t think he’s figured it out yet, Douglas.” 

 

***

 

It took Douglas all of two minutes to find Martin, leant as he was against the side of his van farthest from the Portakabin. He had his arms folded behind him as a brace to his lower back, and his face was tipped up to watch a plane taking off in the distance. 

Douglas wasn’t sure Martin was seeing anything at all. His face was ashen, and though he wasn’t actually crying, his eyes when he finally turned to look at Douglas, were red-rimmed and wet. 

Douglas felt the sharp, unpleasant downward swoop of his heart and lungs as he looked at the damage he had caused. 

Again. 

“Arthur thinks we’ve broken up,” he said lightly, carefully. 

Martin barely even blinked. 

“I always thought Carolyn would be the one to figure it out first, to be honest.” Douglas rubbed his neck, unsure how to go on. “But Ar—” 

“—I’m sure she figured it out long ago, Douglas,” Martin said with a weary sigh, turning back to the sun setting over the runway. “But it doesn’t really matter now.” 

Somewhere in the vicinity of his lower intestine, Douglas’s sunken heart began to hammer a warning. “Doesn’t it?” 

“I can’t do this anymore Douglas. I won’t.” Martin was visibly trembling. While his arms were still almost casually braced behind him, Douglas could just see past the fall of his jacket where his fingers clutched tightly at his elbow. 

Douglas’s own knees nearly gave way. “I’m _sorry_ , Martin. Please…” 

Martin scoffed out a pained laugh and dropped his head back against the van with a metallic thud. He closed his eyes, ignoring the way his ridiculous hat had fallen forwards, nearly hitting the bridge of his nose. “Of course you’re sorry. You _always_ are. That’s the problem.” 

And wasn’t _that_ accusation just a bit too familiar? To think he hadn’t even touched any alcohol this time… 

It was Douglas’s turn to reach out cautiously, wrapping a big paw around Martin’s arm when he didn’t pull away. He moved to stand in front of Martin, removing his hat and propping it on the top of the van so he could run his fingers through limp ginger curls. Martin looked at him, jaw set, eyes dark. 

All those times he’d brushed him off, said something harsh. Martin had never questioned it, never called him out on it before. Now he was letting him see exactly how much he’d hurt him, every time. Douglas couldn’t swallow the regret past the lump in his throat. 

Since words failed him, Douglas leant forward to push a kiss against Martin’s lips. 

Martin didn’t pull back, but he did turn his head so Douglas missed and caught him on the jaw. “Do you know,” Martin’s voice was nigh-on conversational, but for the sting of bitter pain cracking it, “until we actually got together, I don’t think I’d ever heard you apologise. Not properly. Not genuine, meaning it.” 

Douglas froze, one hand still on Martin’s arm, the other pushing hard at his chest, trying to convey his remorse directly through Martin’s sternum. 

Martin unfolded his arms and gripped Douglas’s wrists. “I don’t think I feel at all special now that I get to hear a sincere, heartfelt apology from you at least twice a week.” He pushed Douglas’s hands down and off him, and turned to retrieve his cap. 

Douglas wasn’t even slightly tempted to tease him for the way he had to stretch so high to manage it. 

Martin didn’t quite turn fully round as he spoke to his hat. “We were happy for a bit, Douglas, I think—” 

“—Of _course_ we—” 

_Past. Tense. Past. Tense. Past. Tense,_ shivered his heart from the depths. 

“—up until you decided you were ashamed, at least.” Martin plucked at an invisible thread in the cap’s braid. 

“ _Ashamed_? That’s not—” 

Martin looked up at that. “Weren’t you?” He didn’t sound particularly interested. “All the secrecy, all the time. It made sense at first but you’ve been getting…” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know. Distant. More paranoid about people finding out. I bet you weren’t like that with Helena. Or any of the others.” 

Douglas didn’t have an answer to that. 

Or at least, not one he was willing to share. 

The pause was enough. A bit too eloquent apparently. While Douglas was busy thinking ( _panicking_ ), Martin had thrown his hat through the open driver’s side window of his van and was in the process of climbing in. 

“Martin. Don’t go. Please.” 

“I have to, Douglas. This… I have to.” 

“Martin. You’re wrong. I lov—” 

“DON’T.” Martin’s knuckles were white where his hand gripped the door handle. He settled in his seat and slammed the door. “Don’t you dare. Not now.” 

“Martin. _Please_.” 

“I’ll see you later, Douglas.” 

With a sputtering cough, the van’s engine rolled over and Martin drove away. The van disappeared out of the air field gates leaving Douglas standing forlornly in the rosy glow of the last moments of sunset.


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh, Douglas.” Carolyn’s steely tone was tinted with sympathy as she walked over to where Douglas was still standing, lost, in the floodlit parking area outside the cabin. 

Douglas turned to her wordlessly, still running through the events of the afternoon and trying to work out how he had ended up in exactly the situation he was trying to avoid. 

“Come on,” Carolyn was tugging on his arm, and for all she was being brusque there was a glint of what looked like pity in her eyes. 

Douglas sagged as he saw it. Hadn’t avoided that either, then. Four goes round the romance wheel and he still hadn’t worked out how to fall off without an audience. 

Inside, Carolyn guided Douglas onto the sofa while Arthur presented him with a violently sweet cup of tea and one of their old airline blankets. Douglas discarded the offensive tea and regarded the blanket suspiciously. “What’s this for? I’m not in shock. It’s not cold.” 

He hadn’t realised Carolyn was tense until she relaxed a fraction. “On the contrary, First Officer Richardson, you’re white as a sheet, it’s 6 degrees out there and you’ve been standing in the dark in your shirtsleeves for the best part of an hour.” 

“I…oh.” An hour. Really? His belatedly raised hackles rippled into a droop. 

“I take it that was a bit more than a lovers’ tiff.” 

Douglas didn’t even notice as she tucked the blanket around his shoulders, too busy folding himself forward, elbows to knees, face in hands. “Oh. God.” 

“Got sick of being your shameful little secret, did he?” Carolyn’s voice was cold. 

“That’s not… that’s _absolutely_ not how it is… was.” To his embarrassment, Douglas’s voice was almost raw, even as he looked her in the eye. 

“You need to buck your ideas up, Douglas. I’ve stayed out of it this long. It’s none of my business, except where it affects MJN. But any fool could see how,” she pulled a face, “how _happy_ you two were making each other. It was revolting. But it was a damn sight better than whatever the last few weeks have been about.” 

“I know.” 

“Good. Can you fix it?” 

“I…don’t know.” 

It was a sign of his emotional state that Douglas didn’t bother defending himself, didn’t try suggesting that none of the tensions they’d witnessed had been his fault. 

By the grim look on Carolyn’s face, she noticed that aberration too. 

“Do you _want_ to fix it?” It was the first time Arthur had spoken since they came in. He was still clutching the cup of unwanted molten sugar that Douglas refused. 

“ _Yes_.” 

“Well that’s a start.” Carolyn gave him an uncharacteristic pat on the knee as she stood up. “Right. That’s enough dawdling around here. You’re not being paid overtime for your love life issues.” She chivvied Douglas to his feet and Arthur into the kitchen as she picked up her own bag and jacket. “Arthur, you can wash that up tomorrow, Douglas… drive safely.” 

 

***

 

He didn’t call Martin right away. Instead he drove through the night, all the way to Cumbria, to surprise his daughter. They’d planned so many things for the 10 days she had been going to stay with him, the least he could do was spend a couple of days with her while they weren’t flying. 

While he was trying to sort his head out. 

Her mother was forgiving when he rang to say he was coming. She, more than any of his other wives, had understood the demands of his job and mostly didn’t hold it against him – even when he had to disrupt their plans. 

He supposed being madly in love and on the cusp of an engagement might have helped her mood. 

“I’d forewarned Mum and Dad this might happen,” she admitted. “And Emily’s got this week off school anyway, so if you want to take her out tomorrow, I know she’d love it.” 

 

Emily was, of course, delighted. And brimming over with stories as Douglas followed her around the animal park the next day, encouraging her to feed, rather than brain, the local ducks with the leftovers of their lunch. Her bubbling laughter and bright joy was a distraction of sorts, but Douglas spent the day feeling as though he were watching from outside, attached to his play-acting body by lead-weighted boots. 

 

***

 

Martin drove all the way back to Parkside Terrace without hitting anything, which was an impressive feat, considering he spent the entire trip staring blindly out of the windscreen. 

He dragged himself up to his attic on shaky legs, mechanically hanging his jacket and cap behind the door before sinking onto his bed. 

His stomach was a roiling mass of regret and when he glanced at his desk, the sight of the flight goggles perched jauntily on the top of his ancient monitor sent a spike of grief through his throat that left him actually gasping. For the first time he thought he understood what all those overdramatic heroines were on about – he wanted to scream himself hoarse, rend his garments, smash a window. 

He settled for tearing off his tie. Digging his fingers into his hair and pulling as hard as he could. Burying his face in his hands and trying not to sob. 

At least his bedding was reasonably clean. The last few nights he’d spent with Douglas had been at the rather comfier flat with its queen-size bed. Nothing but the faintest whiff of fabric softener and his own sweat marred these sheets. 

He spent the night sprawled on his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t sleep a wink. 

He was up two hours before his alarm, getting ready for a full day’s van work with the assistance of a roaring headache and the slightly hazy sense that the real world was taking place just outside his peripheral vision. Everything was blurry. Dulled. His heart was a slow, steady, aching thump in his chest. 

Despite a throat too clogged with emotion to swallow, he forced down toast and coffee to get him through the day. Neither stayed in his system long enough to cause anything but stomach cramps; his innards too busy metabolising stress and distress to take care of nutrition. 

He welcomed the physical pain, a distraction from the trauma he’d mostly caused himself. When he was ready, he grabbed the van keys and drove the hour up the motorway to his first job. 

 

***

 

“Peter’s really nice,” Emily confided as they wandered towards an ice cream van. “I think you'd like him, Daddy.” 

Douglas arched a brow. “Didn't like the last one, poppet. You know I never think anyone's good enough for your mother. Does he treat her well? Does he treat _you_ well?” He gave her a squeeze and she giggled. 

“Yesah, but that's not what I mean.” She gave him a mischievous look that was _ALL_ Richardson and far too knowing for someone in pigtails. 

Douglas barely covered his faltering step with a feigned skip, swinging her arm and matching her expression with a casual drawl. “Oh yes?” 

“Mmm. Red hair, skinny... I think you and Mum might like the same kind of boys.” She grinned cheekily. 

Douglas felt the corners of his mouth tilt up in a sick smile even as all the blood rushed out of his face. He lost the grip on Emily’s hand as she bounced into the ice cream queue, already plotting how to get an extra flake. Douglas let her go, frantically recalibrating the level of his daughter’s perceptiveness as he suddenly found himself wholly present. 

“Dad? Daddy?” She was tugging on his sleeve as the ice cream attendant repeated his request for money. 

He handed over the coins and retrieved the already dripping cone, festooned as it was with topping and sprinkles as well as two flakes. 

“How did you know?” he managed, finally, as they made their way towards a bench. 

Emily carefully licked a channel around the edge of the wafer. “Daddy, Martin’s over at your house all the time. Just like Peter is always at ours. I like Martin. What’s wrong?” She blinked at him, raspberry topping glinting on the end of her nose. 

“I…I didn’t think you knew about um… about Martin. And me.” Douglas swatted at her nose with a spare serviette. 

Ever her father’s daughter, she rolled her eyes. ”Of course I do. Me and Mum knew you’d met someone and Martin is the only one you keep talking about. It’s good. You laugh a lot. Why… didn’t you want me to know? Is that why you keep telling me he’s just your ‘mate’?.” 

How was his little girl so clear sighted? 

“It’s not that…” 

“Is it because he’s your captain? Because Peter works for Mum and _they_ make it work. Carolyn would be all right with it, wouldn’t she?” 

“ _My_ capt…?” So she knew he’d been demoted as well. 

She was looking really worried now, ice cream smeared on her chin. “That… he is still the captain, isn’t he?” 

“Yes... but…” 

He couldn’t actually keep up with this conversation. Wasn’t he supposed to be in charge? 

“What. Um. How long have you known that I…?” 

“What?” She looked genuinely confused, and slightly bored by the conversation as she methodically pushed the flakes further into the cone and sucked all the ice cream off the top. 

”Never mind.” He settled back on the bench and turned to face the pond. 

He’d spent all this time and effort lying to her and not only was it unnecessary, she hadn’t even noticed. Which he supposed, was probably a good thing.


	8. Chapter 8

Martin heaved a sigh as he turned off the engine and surveyed the abandoned, dimly lit car park of the warehouse. The pouring rain wasn’t helping visibility but, he unhitched his seatbelt and rolled his shoulders to release the strain of overuse, it certainly suited his mood. 

He cracked open the door and blinked up into the downpour. The rain was loud on the sodden tarmac, a white noise that helped blur his thoughts. A shuddering clang drew his attention to the night guard opening the metal doors of the storage room. Protected by an umbrella, the man gestured into the gloom beyond and then ducked back under the overhang with a frown. 

Not planning to help then. 

Martin shut the van door carefully, ensuring the jolt hadn’t caused the window to fall open, then began unloading the first of twenty heavy mystery boxes into the storeroom. 

If there was a light, the guard hadn’t bothered to flick it on. Martin had to feel his way down rickety metal steps and then stand at the foot of them until his eyes adjusted enough to find somewhere safe to put down his first load. He ended up shoving it against a wall and feeling gingerly about for a light switch, eventually locating it near another door on the far side. 

A wan globe did a pitiful job of lighting the room, but was an improvement at least, and allowed Martin to move a little faster. Not that he was in much of a hurry. The longer he could drag out the methodical unloading, the longer he could avoid… everything. 

 

It was the tenth trip that did him in. A flash of lightning and almost immediate shock of thunder that shook the car park at its foundations. Martin lost his footing on the steps and landed at the base of the stairs with an almighty crash just as the light bulb flickered out. 

It ought to have sent his heart racing. 

It didn’t. 

He lay dully on the floor for a minute and hoped to God whatever he was transporting wasn’t valuable. Thankfully the boxes were still sealed, so he shifted them roughly into place and made a mental note to warn his client. 

When he pulled himself to his feet, he realised he’d twisted his ankle. Again. 

A panicked group of brain cells automatically banished the Douglas-associations of that particular injury before they could take hold. 

In the back of his mind he also vaguely registered painful throbbing down his back and something dripping over his fingers, but he concentrated on manoeuvring himself back up into the light and the sog and tracking down the guard for payment. 

The guard offered him a rather alarmed expression and a packet of tissues with the envelope of cash. Martin just blinked and accepted the offering, before making his way to his van. Only as he leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition did he realise his entire sleeve and hand was soaked with blood due to the enormous gash where he’d obviously caught his arm on one of the twisted, rusting juts of metal when he’d fallen. 

Inconvenient to drive with. He’d get the wheel all sticky. 

He used the tissues to mop up, then made a half-hearted attempt at first aid with the small kit he kept in the glove box. He’d deal with it properly at home. 

 

He was only a few miles out from town, not another house or car in sight, when the van juddered to a stop. 

Martin thought of the bag of tools he’d taken out that morning, in order to clear all the space necessary for the day’s work. He stared out into the black of the countryside and laughed hollowly until his gorge rose and hysteria gave way to weary consideration of his options. 

They were minimal. Too dark and too wet at the moment. But if he could wait it out, in the morning there was bound to be a house or farm nearby from which he could borrow the tools to fix the van himself. He had a sneaky idea what the problem was and even with the day’s earnings, he couldn’t afford to pay someone else to tow and repair the van. 

His ankle twinged distantly at the suggestion of walking anywhere any time soon. 

As the rain fell even harder, he realised just how wet his own clothes were and finally registered that he was still shuddering despite the dead engine and utter stillness of the vehicle. 

Shivering, he noted, dimly. 

He shifted against a particularly recalcitrant seat spring and turned to pull at the old blanket he kept to protect items during moving. He’d left it in the back of the van. Which he’d left open while transporting the boxes from vehicle to storeroom. It was utterly drenched. 

Of course it was. 

He ignored the blood that had soaked through his makeshift bandage and huddled down in his seat. Alone. In the dark. With the pounding rain and his chattering teeth as a soundtrack to everything he’d been avoiding thinking about all day. 

 

***

 

With the last of the washing up finished and Emily banished to bed long ago, Douglas finally joined her mother in the kitchen for one last coffee. 

“Driving home tonight?” She set a steaming mug down on the pine table. 

“No”, Douglas rubbed at his sleep-deprived eyes and wondered if the hot drink would do anything for the hollow ache in his stomach. “I’ll catch a few winks at the motel and then go on.” 

“You could have stayed here.” 

“I don’t think ‘Peter’ would have liked that much.” 

She frowned. “Don’t say his name like that. He’s lovely. You’d probably get along. He adores Emily and she loves him. I won’t have you—” 

Douglas raised a hand in the air. “I apologise. God knows I’ve got no right.” He sighed and felt his face slide another inch down his bones. 

She looked at him speculatively. “Emily had a good time today. She always does. You’re a good father...” 

He looked at her over his cup. “But?” 

“No ‘but’. She worships you. You know that. This… me marrying Peter. It’s not going to change anything. If that’s what you’re worried about.” 

He blinked. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that it would,” he said honestly. 

She laughed. “I’m glad. But...” 

Douglas waggled a finger. “ _There_ it is. I knew there was a but.” 

“No. It’s just,” She put a hand on his arm. “Sweetheart. You look bloody awful.” 

Douglas paused with his lips unattractively pursed ready to take a sip of his coffee. He rearranged them into a grimace. “Thank you.” 

She swatted him. “Don’t be like that. I know you, remember?” 

He tensed. Then worked it seamlessly into an awkward and unconvincing stretch. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Noth—” 

“Don’t say ‘nothing’!” 

He made a concerted attempt to relax. “ _Nothing_ you need to worry about.” 

She bit her lip. “It’s not…?” He pretended not to notice the way she’d glanced at the cupboard of wine glasses. 

His turn to reassure with an arm squeeze. “No. It’s not. I prom—” 

The unexpected trill of his mobile broke the moment. Douglas barely glanced at it as he answered, still intent on reassuring his ex and friend that he wasn’t about to relapse. 

“Hello?” 

_“D-Douglas?”_ Martin sounded pale and far away. 

“Martin!” Douglas shot up from his seat, as if standing would somehow bring him closer to the voice on the other end of the phone. 

_“Douglas. I’m…God. I’m sorry to call. I didn’t…”_ A rather alarming sound of shivering shook the line like static. _“I didn’t mean to call, b-but…”_

“You didn’t _mean_ to call?” Hurt warred with hope as Douglas began pacing the kitchen under the watchful eye of the room’s owner. 

_“I…well…n-no. Y-yes. S-sort of. The thing is. I’ve sort of….b-broken down and I was wondering…”_

“Where are you, dar–Martin?” He ran a hand down his face as he wandered out into the hall, away from the knowing stare being directed across the table. 

_“S-somewhere outside C-Coventry, I think. On the main road. The…. the deserted bit. C-could you…I know all things considered i-it’s a cheek to ask. And you’ve every right to say n-no… But…oh, god. D-Douglas… could you pick me up?”_

Martin’s voice cracked on the last word, splitting Douglas’s already battered heart in two. 

“Oh. Martin. Coventry? I…No. I can’t. I’m sorry.” An almost four-hour drive from where he was now on a good day; much longer in stormy weather. 

He’d never wished harder for his own jet. 

_“Right. Ah. I-I understand. I shouldn’t… this was stupid.”_ A poorly disguised _whimper_ was deliberately muffled. _“I’m sorry, Douglas… …Can we, m-maybe just f-forget I called?”_

“No! Martin, it’s not that; I’m n—” 

“Daddy, can I have a drink of water?” Emily was standing right behind him, sleep-rumpled and dopey. He hadn’t even heard her feather-light footsteps on the stairs. 

Her mother tugged her into the kitchen and closed the door, leaving a façade of privacy for what she’d clearly worked out was a strained phone call. 

_“Is that…? Of course, you’ve got Emily. Of course you wouldn’t...”_ Suddenly Martin’s voice was much stronger. _“Sorry, Douglas, I didn’t even think. I’m an idiot. I just got a bit… Never mind. I’ll um… I’ll call, uh… Arthur.”_

Douglas looked at his phone in disbelief as the series of beeps indicated Martin had rung off. He looked at his watch. Gone 11:30pm. He knew there was no way Mr Manners was calling Arthur at this time of night. Which meant he was either going to sleep in the van, or try walking for help. 

And he didn’t sound like he was in any state to cope with either. 

Well. If Douglas couldn’t come to the rescue himself, perhaps he could still help in other ways. Too late for Martin to phone a friend, perhaps; but not too late for Douglas to call for a tow service. He scrolled through his contact list until he’d found one he’d pessimistically stored for almost precisely this scenario. 

And tried to ignore the niggling realisation that Martin thought Douglas was at home. A mere half hour away from where he was stranded. And that, break-up or not, he had been heartbreakingly understanding over the idea that Douglas wouldn’t come for him. 

Because, Douglas thought, he was used to it. 

 

No wonder they’d broken up.


	9. Chapter 9

The unwelcome wash of warm giddy relief that flooded Martin’s stomach at the sight of the headlights veering slowly in behind him was even more unwelcomely swept away when he realised it was not Douglas with a change of heart, but the AA come to tow him away. 

Martin levered himself out into the rain and hobbled into the light, arm cradled against his chest. The driver hissed a breath of sympathy at Martin’s stiff movements, but neither of them wanted to stand around getting wetter than necessary. A quick prod around confirmed the van was not going to be driveable any time soon, and in ten short minutes, the driver had it hitched up to his truck and Martin slumped in his passenger seat. 

Martin burned with humiliation as he squirmed in the stuffy heating from the air vents. His queries as to cost – having assumed the driver was simply responding to a random report of an abandoned van – were brushed off with the assurance that the tow had already been prepaid by a Mr Richardson. 

Martin felt like an orphaned waif, not a shred of his Captainly dignity left intact. He shivered as the heat finally began to restore some blood flow, and tried not to shift too much as with the heat came the pain he’d been able to ignore in the cold and dark. The driver was shooting troubled glances at Martin’s blood-drenched arm and before he knew it, they were pulling up outside Fitton hospital. 

“Can’t possibly take you home like that, sir. You wanna get that looked at. Your foot too, I’d say.” He handed Martin a card and gently but insistently nudged him out of the truck towards the Accident and Emergency entry they were nigh-on blocking. “This is where I’m taking the van. You give ’em a call tomorrow. Take care o’ yerself.” He nodded sharply and leaned over to pull the door closed as Martin hopped down. 

Abandoned as well as waifly, Martin hobbled into the hospital, out of the rain, noting that the driver made a point of staying until he’d seen Martin go inside. 

 

***

 

Armed with a Tupperware container of leftovers, “because you look like a wreck and it’s a long drive back to Fitton,” Douglas did end up driving home that night. He made only two detours. One to the motel to grab his overnight bag and check out, and one via Conventry… to make sure Martin had been successfully rescued. 

He finally got home, exhausted, in the not-that-early hours of the morning. He sent another quick text to Martin – though the last 4 had gone unanswered – then threw himself wearily into the hottest shower he could muster. 

He dragged himself to bed around 8am, leaving a final voicemail on Martin’s phone pleading for a meeting at Martin’s local pub. A chance to talk. 

He’d had a sleep and been up for 2 hours before Martin replied by text, agreeing to the meeting but changing the location. A slightly more upmarket hotel bar, closer the midpoint between their homes. More neutral territory for both of them. 

 

***

 

Douglas arrived early and sat in a booth facing away from the bar so he wouldn’t have to look at all the tempting oblivion. He sipped mechanically at his soda water, winding the straw they’d insisted on sending over with it into tighter and tighter loops around his finger. Enjoying the distracting way it cut off the blood flow before folding the flattened plastic into sharp edges he pressed masochistically into his hand. 

Warm fingers settled over his, pulling the mangled straw away, then Martin plonked a beer on the coaster at the other side of the booth table and slid stiffly into the seat. 

Douglas caught his breath. Martin’s sleeve, hitched at his elbow, revealed the thick bandage at his wrist. He swallowed. Surely that wasn’t… 

Martin caught his glance, and apparently the panicked thoughts in his head. He frowned as he pulled the sleeve back down. “It was my _heart_ you broke, Douglas,” he said witheringly. “Not my will to live.” 

Douglas felt a cold blush suffuse his cheeks as he ducked his head. Embarrassment, shame, guilt and horror grinding together. He clenched one hand into a fist, willing himself not to turn around to the colourful bottles behind him. 

Bottles that had, for a long time, been the only thing sustaining _his_ will. Or blotting out the lack. 

“Oh. Douglas. No. I didn’t mean…”Martin had half reached across the table before thinking better of it and wrapping his fingers around the glass in front of him. Tapping agitatedly. 

“Thank you for the tow truck.” he said eventually. “I’ll…. I’ll pay you back.” 

Douglas waved him off. “No need, Martin. I know why you didn’t call one. It’s covered. And… so are the repairs.” 

Martin looked up. Spine rod-straight, face red. “No. Now wait a minute, Douglas, I can take care of my own prob—” 

“Easy, easy, Martin.” Douglas held up a placating hand. “I _know_ you don’t like, or want, any help. But if I could have come last night, I would have done. I wasn’t… I was in Cumbria. Hours away. Sending someone else to save you hours in the cold was the least I could do.” He watched Martin’s face twist. “ _Please_ , just for once…. I appreciate I’m not your favourite person in the world right now, but let me do this one thing for you?” 

Martin blinked at him, posture subtly softened. “But you are.” 

“What?” 

Martin stared at Douglas’s half-empty glass. “I mean… everything’s horrible, and all this—” he waved between them “—is awful. But… Of course you’re still my favourite person, Douglas. Who else would be?” 

Douglas let out a shuddering sigh. How could Martin say these things so easily? “God, Martin. For a man who positively _bleeds_ pride, you don’t half sell yourself short.” 

“I don’t…” 

“I’ve been awful to you. And if I’m not mistaken, until a moment ago, you thought I wouldn’t even bother to come for you if you were catastrophically stranded _up the road from my house_.” 

“I—” 

“You were wrong. But…you didn’t reach that conclusion without serious experience-based evidence. Don’t you think you deserve better?” 

“Douglas.” Martin seemed…aghast. He was white-faced and Douglas could see faint tremor running through his hands. 

“That’s not…”Martin looked Douglas in the eye and sighed. “All right. I suppose I said as much, didn’t I?” 

He looked back down, trailing one finger through the pools of condensation on the table. “So…what now? Why are we…? I mean….what are we….discussing?” 

Douglas took a fortifying swig of soda, then reached out to clasp Martin’s condensationy fingers cautiously. “You were right,” he admits, willing Martin to look him in the eye. “I wasn’t like _that_ … like I am… _was_ … with you when I was with Helena. When I was with _any_ of the others.” 

Martin did look up at that, but it was to try to pull his hand away. Douglas clung on. “But it wasn’t shame, Martin, I wasn’t ashamed, of us, or you. I was…am… _afraid._ Utterly terrified.” 

It wasn’t Martin who was trembling now, he noticed. His own heart was hammering so hard he could barely breathe. He shut his eyes and let go of Martin’s hand abruptly so as to loosen his shirt collar — already undone by two buttons and in no danger of choking him. 

A tall glass of ice appeared on the table next to him. He hadn’t even noticed Martin leave, but he registered the wince as Martin folded himself back into the seat, eyeing Douglas worriedly. 

Douglas pressed the icy glass against his forehead. Too overheated by stress to be embarrassed. 

“I don’t… I never understood how you managed to make it look so easy. Being with me. Being _us_. Three wives, I’ve lost, Martin. Not to mention the other heartbreaks in between. But three people with whom I shared a promise of love and devotion for all eternity.” He flung a hand in the air. “Three. Gone. All that bliss, all that love, just… disappeared. It’s… the most horrific experience in the world. And I….well. I dreaded the same thing happening again. Falling in love. Losing my heart. Losing you. 

“And then, it happened anyway. All of it.” 

He swallowed. Unable to look at Martin now. He bit his lip and contemplated the rapidly melting ice in his glass. 

Martin drummed his fingers on the table as he stared into the distance at the back of the room. “Falling in love – with you – was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said bluntly, the words driving a wedge of anguish and guilt through Douglas’s confession. “What’s that thing they say? ‘It’s better to have loved and lost’? You’ve done it three times already. So, I-I get that you’re scared. And I know the great Sky God doesn’t like anyone else to see his weaknesses – or to see him fail – but, Douglas…I’ve never been in love at _all_. You think you’re scared? I _never_ thought I’d be this lucky. When everything between us was good – b-before you started to worry about what Emily might think or, I guess, whether we were going to break up, my God, Douglas, I haven’t been that happy since… well, since…since I first learned to fly.” 

Douglas felt as if the room was spinning. Martin stopped drumming his fingers, but was focused on gathering all the spare cardboard coasters from the table. 

“So you see, the thing is, I always felt that even if you… _whoever_ …took this away from me tomorrow – and I admit, I always thought it would end, too …it was still more than I ever thought I’d have. So…” Martin shrugged as he laid the coasters out in perfectly aligned rows, not looking up at Douglas once. “I guess I was willing to take that chance. Just in case my luck held this time.”


	10. Chapter 10

An icy slug oozed its way down Douglas’s gullet as he started at the cardboard jigsaw Martin was constructing. For some reason he’d not taken a moment to consider the implications of being the centre of _Martin’s_ world. He had enough trouble living up to (his apparently flawed perception of) his daughter’s expectations. Knowing Martin cared about him had been one thing. Knowing how much was…almost as terrifying as returning the sentiment. 

Douglas thought back to the immediate aftermath of Martin’s late-night rescue-request phone call. 

It wasn’t just him Emily got her gleeful insight from. His ex had been all quiet sympathy at first. 

“Is he all right?” 

“Who?” Douglas had been in a distracted dither, only half an ear on what was around him as he frantically calculated the time required to get home and different shortcut possibilities. 

“Your boyfriend. Is he all right?” 

Douglas had turned at that. “Is that how you refer to him in front of Emily?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“She,” he fumbled his phone a bit. “She rather confronted me today.” 

Always quick on the uptake, his ex-wife had scoffed and then openly laughed at him, even as she filled a plastic container with leftovers. “Oh, Douglas. You didn’t think it was a secret, did you? Why, for heaven’s sake?” 

“Well, I…Martin’s a man…” 

“Obviously.” 

“I didn’t want…I didn’t think she should have to deal with….that until I knew if….well…” 

“Until you knew whether he would stick? Oh, sweetheart.” She snapped the lid closed and handed the box to Douglas. “ _She_ already knows her father is a hopeless romantic who falls in love at the drop of a hat. And as to the other…” 

She rinsed a cloth in the sink before using it to wipe down the worktop. “Emily’s best friend has two fathers. There are two lesbian couples with children at her school. And last year _my_ best friend’s husband left her for another man.” 

She tossed the used cloth on the sink drainer and faced Douglas with her hands on her hips. “I’m afraid that conversation has sailed.” Her brow furrowed. “How does Martin feel about all this secrecy? Emily seemed to quite like him, how have you—” 

“We broke up.” 

“Oh, Douglas. Over this?” 

“Yes. Well. No, actually. Martin has always been very understanding about Emily and my, _hah_ , my need to keep things quiet around her. But…this and…other things. I may have been a bit….reticent about letting him know how I feel.” 

She’d looked rather cross at that. “He’s been a bit too understanding from the sounds of things. Still, if he’s calling you now, perhaps you haven’t fucked things up irredeemably.” She rounded the worktop and gave Douglas a little push back out into the hall. 

“From what I could hear of that call, you need to go home and apologise —properly — and give your young man a decent explanation.” 

She’d shoved him out the door at that, and he’d allowed the tiniest spark of hope to light his way home. 

But in the cold light of…well, not “day” so much as “this bar”, he wondered whether perhaps he’d been a bit naïve. And selfish. It wasn’t, after all, just his own happiness he was responsible for. And now Martin had made it quite clear how much damage Douglas could do the other man. Was it still selfish not to want to take that risk either? 

 

While Douglas had been pondering, Martin had shifted the conversation. Finally willing to explain his initial silence after calling the cavalry. “I was stuck in the A&E waitroom for about 6 hours before they saw me,” he said, rubbing his bandage with his thumb. “Stitched me up and a tetanus shot for luck. They tried to send me off with crutches, but I couldn’t really use them with my arm anyway, and I’m useless at coordinating them. Much easier without.” 

He inspected the edge of the bandage. “Anyway. That’s why my phone was off. Couldn’t have it on in the hospital. But it did mean I had some time to think.” 

Douglas swallowed tightly. Deflection over. 

“I…I don’t really want to give up on…on us. But we sort of….we fell into a relationship rather quickly. And we never _talked_ about it. I should’ve… I should’ve noticed you weren’t…Anyway. I’m not…I mean, I don’t know if this is what you wanted to discuss…but I don’t think….I’m not ready to just get back together.” He was biting his lip. Something Douglas had always found to be an irresistible invitation to a kiss. 

“I don’t think _you’re_ ready either, Douglas.” Martin’s unexpected shrewdness took Douglas offguard again. He really was losing his touch. “I’m glad you told me everything. And it does change things a bit. But…everything you’ve told me…you’re not ready for a relationship….not with me. And I think…I think maybe nothing will change until you _are_ ready.” 

Well then. Apparently all risk-taking opportunities were off the table. 

Having expected to feel weight lift from his shoulders in relief, Douglas found himself unexpectedly crushed. And old. And heavy. 

 

***

 

An entire week flying to, and then all over, the States and back again with only each other for company. They weren’t fighting, but they weren’t together. They weren’t…anything. 

It was hateful. 

The flights were efficient, the word games half-hearted. Douglas felt as though he were flying with a stranger. Or worse – a _coworker_. Strangers were at least mysterious and you could potentially wind them up. Coworkers were just… 

Dull. 

The nights were even worse. They were still sharing a room everywhere they stayed – Carolyn’s penny-pinching in place even in the face of love’s lost dream – and since they weren’t fighting, they ate dinner together most nights. Bland, collegial meals with shallow conversations on surface topics. Nothing too deep or personal despite the obvious emotional whirlpool swirling beneath the surface. 

It continued after they got back. Weeks of Very Professional Flights. Plenty of tedious checklists and overlong procedure checks but not a harsh word or hint of a bicker between them. Nor a longing stare or flirty retort. 

Douglas thought it might all actually be worse than fighting and falling out. At least that would have involved some kind of passion. 

 

And then Martin announced he had an interview.


	11. Chapter 11

“An interview? So…. you’re leaving?” 

“It’s just an interview, Douglas. At this stage.” 

“With whom? Am I allowed to ask?” 

“It’s…well. It’s Swiss Air.” 

“Again?” 

“Yes. All right. Look. I turned them down last time. And, I mean, obviously that might count against me. But Herc said he’d put in a good word for me. And…” 

“And?” 

“And have to do _something_. I can’t stay here with all…this.” He flapped a hand at Douglas, who recoiled. “You were right, okay? It is. The most awful thing in the world. The aftermath. And we’re sitting in the flight deck…. stewing in it every day, Douglas. It…it can’t be healthy.” 

“This something you’re thinking of doing….wouldn’t include rebounding into the arms of a certain princess, would it?” 

Martin looked disgusted. “You have no right to ask me that but…no. Weren’t you even listening?” 

“I was listening. I just wasn’t agreeing. We’re _stewing_ as you put it because you broke up with me. I understand why, God knows I deserved it. But there’s only so much I can do to make amends if you won’t take me back when you…” He cut himself off. “I’m sorry.” 

“No. Go ahead. When I what?” 

“When you…when you clearly want to. Take me back.” He cringed. 

Martin raised a questioning eyebrow. 

“We didn’t _need_ to repeat all those post-flight checks the other day, did we… sir?” 

“Douglas…” 

“—Or to go over the SOPs in such excruciating detail yesterday…. rather than enjoying an afternoon off?” 

“You’re suggesting that was what? My cunning plan to sweep you off your feet?” 

“We-e-ell…” 

“Rather than a covert attempt to practice before an exam and potential interview?” 

“Oh. I…” Douglas raised his chin firmly. “Yes.” 

“That is horrifically conceited.” 

“I’m…aware.” 

“It’s….also true. A bit. But…that’s exactly why—” Martin indicated the general height and width of Douglas with his still-raised hand “—it would be wrong. I can’t go through that again.” 

“Now you sound like me. Martin, I promise you. That wouldn’t happen. I have many faults, but unlike some, I am a _reasonably_ quick learner. I don’t make the same mistake twice. Certainly not seven times.” 

He hadn’t meant to say that last part. Martin bristled at the dig before he could take it back. “No. Just three times, for you, wasn’t it? Or are we counting us? Even though we didn’t get a ‘licence’? Because that would make it four. The same mistake _four_ times.” 

“Martin—” 

“No. You’re right, Douglas,” Martin unpuffed himself and gathered his belongings, making his way to the Portakabin door. “Only an idiot repeats the same mistake twice. I’ve been…inventing ways to spend time with you, even though... Look. There’s no way for this to end well. I know that and so do you. That’s why I have to lea—” 

“—I thought you said it was _just_ an interview?” Unthinking in his panic, Douglas reached out towards Martin. 

“Christ. You’re so _selfish_. You didn’t want me when you had me; now you want _me_ to take the risk _you_ wouldn’t because _you’re_ upset… _And_ you want me to drive my career into the ground while I’m at it. All for the good of Douglas Richardson.” The last sentence was a credible imitation of Douglas’s drawl. 

Not a fond one. 

Douglas dropped his arms, and let his face fall into the shamed expression it ought to. 

Martin let out a choking sigh. “It’s an interview with intent. I can’t afford to waste their time again. And especially not now when Herc has stuck his neck out. There’s no going back after this, Douglas. If they offer me the job this time, I’ll take it. I can’t stay here mooning about over a br—” he swallowed audibly and turned to face the door instead of meeting Douglas’s eyes “—a broken heart. I’ll s-see you when I get back.” 

He shut the door quietly behind him but it echoed a resounding clang in Douglas’s mind. 

 

***

 

Douglas sat in his car outside his local off-license for the best part of an hour before managing to put the keys shakily back in the ignition and driving away; air conditioning blasting away the thin film of sweat on his face. 

 

He did the same thing every day for a week. Part temptation, part test – one he passed every time. 

But he didn’t trust himself to drive past the pub around the corner. 

 

***

 

“You rewrote your—well, _my_ — but your reference.” Martin was fiddling with the cap in his hands. 

Douglas couldn’t see his face. Couldn’t judge his tone. 

“I did. Yes. I did do that. I thought it might help.” Douglas faux-casually lowered the magazine he wasn’t reading to try to catch Martin’s eye. “So how did it go then?” 

“I’m not sure…what–what were you trying to achieve?” He’d looked up, but there was an actual risk Martin would pull that piece of braid right off if Douglas didn’t intervene. 

“As I said, trying to help.” Douglas put the magazine on his lap and leaned over to still Martin’s fingers. “Why? What happened?” 

“You made me sound like a _Captain_!” 

Exasperated then. 

“You…are a captain. Sir.” 

“Oh, yes, _I_ know that. But no one else ever seems to. _You_ certainly never act like I’m the captain. Your captain. You made me sound…like a …like a proper captain.” 

“Forgive me, Martin, I rather thought that was the point? Impress the interviewers and all that?” 

“Mmm _hmm_?” 

That was the doubting tone of the man who’d been “welcomed” to one of Douglas’s airfield bars. 

“Martin. Honestly. I don’t know what you’re angry about. I thought I was doing the right thing. You had an interview with a company that, by your own admission, had reason to be suspicious of your application since you turned them down once before.” Douglas sat forward, palms out in innocence. “You said this —that— was what you wanted. To move onward and upward, as it were. Believe it or not I was… I was actually trying to respect your wishes. I thought a glowing reference from your esteemed first officer might help.” 

“Esteemed?” 

“Well.” Douglas allowed a careful smirk to fold his mouth. 

Martin threw his cap on the battered coffee table and himself down on the couch next to Douglas. Hands over his face. 

Flight deck aside, it was the closest they’d been to each other for weeks. Douglas ignored the automated flutter in his chest at the near-contact. 

“What happened?” 

A muffled reply from behind those slender fingers. 

“Pardon?” 

Martin pulled a slightly tatty, still-sealed envelope from his breast pocket and threw it at Douglas. 

It landed on the floor. 

“Overqualified.” Martin tucked his hands in his lap and stared at the ceiling. 

Douglas reached down to pick up the letter. “But you haven’t—?” 

“That’s just the official reply. They told me in the interview. Overqualified. They only had a position for a First Officer…a _junior_ First Officer. They didn’t believe, this time, that I’d be willing to take the cut in pay…or status.” 

“Oh, Martin.” Genuine sympathy warred with relief as Douglas reached a tentative hand to Martin’s shoulder. 

The bark of laughter caught him off-guard. 

“God, Douglas, this is so ridiculous.” 

Douglas blinked, still poised to offer apparently unneeded comfort. Martin tipped his head back to the upright position and met his eyes with fond mirth. 

“This whole time. What was I thinking? I forgot, until I got back there, how…cold it all is. How _professional_.” 

Douglas finally pulled his hand back and sat up straight, all limbs tucked safely within his own personal space. “You _like_ that sort of thing, Martin. You live for it. I don’t understand…what on earth is the problem?” 

“Oh, yes. But it’s all relative. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I will never be okay with your complete disregard for safety procedures, or your utter lack of respect for me…” Martin’s expression went a little distant for a moment before he rallied on. “…But I couldn’t imagine having any _adventures_ with Swiss Air. It would all be very much by the book. Straight in. Straight out. No surprises. I’m not…I don’t think I’d fit, Douglas. They’d think I was…reckless! Me!” 

Douglas grinned a little at the notion of Martin as anything even approaching reckless, but in all honesty he’d stalled at the bit about respect. 

As Martin leaned back in some sort of hysterical bemusement, looking, at least, relaxed in the aftermath of a decision, Douglas leant forward, catching Martin’s attention with a light touch to his knee. “I do, you know. Respect you. A great deal.” 

Martin, quite understandably, snorted, and returned his stare to the ceiling, oblivious to Douglas’s earnestness. 

“It’s true. That reference of yours. I didn’t make anything up. Didn’t grandstand, didn’t exaggerate. I know, recent events aside, I tease you…a lot. And I may not always respect that God-awful hat.” He jerked a nod at the offending headpiece. “But that doesn’t mean…Martin, you’re the strongest man I know. You’re braver than me.” 

He hoped Martin didn’t notice the covert glance he shot around the cabin to make sure they were still alone. Confessing to Martin was one thing, but he’d be damned if he’d let Carolyn overhear this. 

“You’re, look, I know I’ve treated you badly but you must know I—I have nothing _but_ respect for the way you’ve handled… all of this. Truly, that reference _was_ meant to help. I was… I _will_ let you go. And,” he squeezed Martin’s knee, to which he was directing his confession, “you were right about me being selfish. I am. I mean, I’ve never exactly made a secret of it,” he let a small laugh escape, “but generally speaking I manage to look out for myself without actively hurting anyone else.” 

He thought back to nights parked outside a liquor shop. To nights long, long before that, spent passed out on his own couch. 

“Most of the time, anyway. I failed entirely with you, and I’m sorry. You’re…you’re not the first person to leave me, but you’re the first one to – properly – call me out on my own behaviour. I might not respect your hat, but I respect _you_ and I…I respect your choices, Martin. So…” Silver tongue failing, Douglas punctuated his uncharacteristic apology with a tight nod and a final pat to Martin’s knee then shifted to stand. 

Martin’s hand wrapping around his wrist, prevented him from moving. Or breathing. 

“Don’t, Douglas.” 

“Don’t…?” 

“Don’t let me go.”


	12. Chapter 12

"Don’t let me go." 

There was a startled pause, then Douglas twisted from his half-standing position to crash to his knees before Martin, hip colliding with the coffee table as he did so. 

They were holding both hands now and Martin was fairly sure, over the thundering of his heart, that he could feel a fine tremor running through Douglas's hands. 

The man before him looked... Devastated. Douglas bowed his head towards Martin’s knees in apparent supplication. Martin swallowed, but before either of them could speak, the door crashed open. 

"Good morning, drivers. Martin, I hope you're not planning to leave right awa— oh." Carolyn shifted to block the doorway, nodding shortly at the two men frozen in position. 

"Arthur—" she pulled the door closed as she stepped back "—be a dear and get my scarf from the car, would you?" 

Two sets of footsteps retreated from the doorway, and Martin stifled a smile at Arthur's confused "But, Mum, you're already wearing your scarf?" before the interruption faded enough to focus again. 

Douglas was clinging tight to Martin’s hands, but he hadn’t looked up. “Martin. Do you mean it?” 

Martin shifted forward in his seat, bracketing Douglas awkwardly between his knees and forcing him to straighten enough that he could gaze into the worried, chocolatey depths of his eyes. 

“Yes. Of course I do. I couldn't... I had a glimpse of the future without you in it, Douglas and I didn't like it at all. Please...” 

He didn't get to finish what he wanted to say because his first officer had enveloped him in an all-encompassing, bone-crushing hug. 

Not just a fine tremor; Douglas was actually shaking. Not that Martin could be judgemental in his wobbly state, but this intensity of emotion and vulnerability was so very out of character for his co-pilot. 

If this was what Douglas had been holding back all this time, it was no wonder he’d been scared and defensive. 

Martin wrapped his own arms around Douglas’s back and pressed a chaste kiss to his brow and meaningless (well, meaning _ful_ ) soothing words to his ear. Rubbing carefully at his shoulders. 

But he was aware this wasn’t the time. Or the place. 

“Carolyn will be back any minute. Are you…?” 

Douglas sat back on his heels, the motion shoving the coffee table back another half-foot. He ran a hand over his face and Martin could see the moment something inside shifted to embarrassment. He ran a hand gently through Douglas’s (much missed) thick hair and bestowed a promising, if brief, kiss to his lips to forestall any discomfort or regret. He used Douglas’s shoulder as a support to haul himself off the couch and made his way towards the kitchen, shouting a deliberately casual offer of coffee as he gave Douglas the privacy he needed to pull himself together. 

Sure enough, Carolyn’s unnecessarily loud voice tolled a warning just as he was stirring sugar into both mugs and the door crashed open again as Arthur entered with trademark exuberance. 

“Morning gents! How are we all today?” 

“Well enough, thank you, Arthur,” said Douglas, who was settling himself back on the settee with his magazine like he’d never moved. “And how are you?” 

“I. Am _brilliant_! Guess where we’re going today?” 

“They don’t need to guess, Arthur.” Carolyn’s voice was muffled as she unwound the scarf from her throat. “They already know, because I rang them this morning. Martin’s already got the flight plan filed, haven’t you, Martin?” 

“Ah,” Martin deposited Douglas’s coffee sheepishly on the resituated table and barely avoided spilling his own as he darted back to his desk. “Nearly.” 

“Nearly is too slow. Chop chop. The client will be here in an hour. Arthur: Galley check; Douglas, my office.” 

 

***

 

It wasn’t the first tense flight they’d flown with each other… but it was the first time in a long time that the tension had held such a frisson of excitement. 

It was almost enough for Douglas to forget the humiliation of being dragged into Carolyn’s office and interrogated. Oh, he’d discharged himself masterfully, but there was no escaping the fact that Carolyn had seen him practically prostrate in front of Martin and – having assumed the worst and anticipated Martin’s imminent resignation – had been checking whether Douglas was emotionally strong enough to fly. That she would even consider she needed to ask was simply horrifying and reasserting his position as the reliable and unflappable Sky God was top of Douglas’s priority list. 

He glanced to the side where Martin was pretending to be completely focused on the instruments in front of him and not sneaking heated glances at Douglas. 

Right after he finished making proper amends to Martin. 

He swallowed the tickle of nerves that said he shouldn’t trust the flutter of excitement and hope in his gut. 

What if Martin didn’t mean it? 

What if Martin changed his mind? 

Thankfully it was only a couple of hours to Budapest, and they were staying overnight. 

Slightly less thankfully, Carolyn had finally started planning around the tension in the flight deck and had, for once, booked separate rooms. Or at least, she’d booked a room for herself and intended that one of the pilots (they all knew it would be Martin) share with Arthur. 

This necessitated some fancy footwork in the hotel foyer when Carolyn handed out the keys. Douglas’s excuse that he and Martin needed to “go over some SOPs” was never terribly convincing, but Martin’s endearing and extravagant blush completely undermined his claims – even as it reassured his own nerves. Still, Arthur was, as ever, oblivious and confusingly overexcited about getting his own room, while Carolyn ensured her own room was several doors away. 

In fact she and Arthur were on a different floor. So at least the stilted lift ride was brief. Although it was no less awkward once he and Martin were alone. The sounds of two men shuffling feet and clearing their throats making far more noise than they ought. 

They made their way down the dingy hallway in silence. 

Martin took three goes to get the keycard to register, Douglas’s own hand guiding the slide on the fourth… 

…and that was enough to break the tension. 

They stumbled into the room, Douglas somehow managing to slip the card into the slot by the door so they could switch lights on later and throwing his bag carelessly on the luggage rack by the wardrobe. Martin fell back against the heavy door as it closed behind them, and dropped his own bag to the floor, reaching out to tug Douglas toward him by his tie. 

The first kiss was a mess of mashed lips and clashed teeth, but Martin’s moan made it all worth it. Douglas slid his hands up Martin’s arms and into his hair, taking a moment to toss the captain’s hat over his shoulder and across the room. 

It was a testament to the emotion of the moment that Martin didn’t even squeak a protest, simply releasing Douglas’s tie and slipping his hands to Douglas’s waist. 

A very pleasant 10 minutes was spent just kissing. Nipping and sucking on each other’s lips, tangling tongues and just reminding each other how very good they were at _this_. 

A moment taken to pause for breath. As Douglas gazed into sliver-blue, Martin chuckled, finally reaching up to remove Douglas’s own cap and hurling it with slightly less dexterity than Douglas had done his, onto the desk. Not bothering to suppress his own wry smirk, Douglas kissed Martin’s quirked eyebrow and all of a sudden found himself caught, again, in a maelstrom of emotion. 

Of loss. 

Of _regret_. 

Of what _might have been_. What almost _was_. 

He was winded by the physical reminder that this time that bitter future had been avoided. Narrowly. 

He heaved in a great breath of remorse and devoured Martin’s mouth. Clutching him close. Trying not to overwhelm him with the storm of love and hope and horror and fear and _relief_. 

 

It was impossible for Martin to keep up. He kissed back, but mostly rubbed soothing circles over Douglas’s back as the life was near-literally snogged out of him. Eventually he realised those weren’t little grunts of passion and emotion rumbling against his lips. His hands stilled and he tried to draw back, but Douglas followed him; he could hear it now, though: “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ ” on an endless and heartbreaking loop against his mouth. The words small puffs of warm, emotive air breathed straight into his lungs. 

He swallowed a knife-sharp stab of empathy. 

Enough. 

Martin took control of the kiss. Sucking Douglas’s plump lower lip so hard it was impossible for him to mutter anything. Shifting his hands to Douglas’s hips and hauling him closer. Close enough to grind. Shifting a thigh between Douglas’s legs and _biting_ at his mouth until he had completely and utterly distracted his first officer and driven him into a lustful haze. 

“I think you’re overdressed, First Officer Richardson.” 

 

Douglas let out a groan as Martin writhed in a particularly, and deliberately, suggestive fashion. He grabbed Martin by the shoulders and spun them both around so he could shove Martin towards the bed. “Just following your lead, Captain Crieff. Perhaps you’d like to walk me through the appropriate _procedure_?” 

Martin grinned, loosening his tie and jerking his chin at Douglas. “Jacket and shoes off first, please.” 

Douglas bowed his head in faux politeness and shrugged out of his jacket while simultaneously toeing out of his shoes. His mock seriousness failed with a sputter of laughter as Martin, newly tieless, tried to emulate him, failing when he realised his shoes were laced rather than slip-ons, and taking an extra moment to hang his jacket properly, rather than slinging it over a chair as Douglas had done. 

Shirt half-unbuttoned, Douglas caught Martin’s arm as he returned to the bedside, and pulled him in for another snog. “How can I ravish you, sir, if you insist on stopping to fold and fluff all your clothes?” 

Martin hummed a laugh against Douglas’s lips and snuck a hand down between them to cup and squeeze his first officer in a way that was certainly not listed in _any_ regulations. 

“Keen as I might be for you to simply tear my clothes off – and certainly this rubbish uniform Carolyn provides wouldn’t make it difficult – it is the _only_ uniform I brought with me, so…” 

Douglas let out a panting groan as Martin released him, and finished unbuttoning his shirt. “I have to say, sir, that while you may have a valid point, it may be best if you could refrain from mentioning our employer by name during this enterprise.” 

Martin looked up from where he was sat trying to unknot his shoelaces and laughed. “Roger that.” 

Douglas refrained from making a filthy comeback to that and, having dispensed of his shirt and socks, sidled over to stand between Martin’s knees. 

“You seem to have fallen behind there, Captain.” 

Martin gave him a heated look from beneath lowered lashes and pressed a wet kiss just above Douglas’s belt buckle. “Perhaps you could assist me?” 

“With pleasure… _sir_ ” Douglas pushed a knee meaningfully between Marin’s thighs and used one hand to tilt Martin’s face up for a kiss, the other to unbutton his shirt. 

They were both gasping by the time he reached the hem and was able to push the shirt clear of Martin’s shoulders, forgetting about the still-buttoned cuffs. Martin’s hands were rubbing and clenching reflexively at Douglas’s hips, and with a groan he pushed at Martin’s shoulders, following him down onto the mattress at last. 

Only Martin’s distracted wriggling pulled him back from the intense kiss and grind, and he realised the poor man was still trapped and tangled in his own shirt. He helped undo the cuffs, then by unspoken agreement, they both slipped out of their trousers and pants and finally _finally_ they were pressed together from lips to toes. All hot, slightly damp skin. 

Writhing and fondling and _hard_. 

Martin _whined_ , rolling to pull Douglas full on top of him and kneading his buttocks in a way that was intended to encourage him to buck and rut. 

It was too much and not enough. 

His bag was 12 light years away on the other side of the room. 

But lube would make this so much better. 

Every time he shifted to get up, Martin clung a little tighter. Bruisingly. 

_Pleasingly_. 

But not _helpfully_. 

Douglas was not ashamed to deploy a distraction technique, shimmying down his lover’s body and bestowing kisses and licks as he went. Martin was deliciously frustrated but oblivious by the time he got to his ankles – having deliberately avoided key, _twitching_ , areas – and didn’t notice Douglas slipping off the bed until he was hopping inelegantly across the room to his bag, foraging about to the very bottom where a long-discarded bottle had been neglected since they broke up. 

Martin’s concerned call was smothered by the _whumph_ of Douglas landing back on top of him, one hand now perfectly slippery and sneakily slid down to grasp both of them. 

He swallowed Martin’s shout and gripped tighter, not holding back his own cry of pleasure. Alternating between delicate licks to Martin’s creamy white shoulder and freckle-bedecked chest and deeper, passionate kisses to his lips until they were both too breathless to do anything but pant at each other. 

Martin’s long fingers joined Douglas’s bear paw and guided them to a faster, smoother, harder rhythm until finally Douglas felt Martin give a shuddering jerk and hot pulses filled his hand. It was enough to prompt his own climax and he muffled an unexpectedly loud roar in the humid crook of Martin’s neck. 

Gentle pushes to his shoulder brought him back to reality and he realised he had collapsed entirely on top of Martin, who was clearly struggling to breathe. And Douglas was still holding them both in a loose fist. 

He let out a shuddering, apologetic sigh of his own as he lifted himself off and to the side, re-collapsing on the hideous coverlet. He felt Martin smile as he kissed Douglas’s bicep. 

“Perfect run-through, First Officer, but let’s not get complacent. I think we’ll want to want to have a few more practice runs, just to make sure.” His sultry, confident tone was endearingly marred by hoarse breathlessness. 

Settling more comfortably back to earth and for once enjoying the warm afterglow with no fear for what it might all mean, Douglas slithered an arm under Martin and pulled him close. “Absolutely, sir. Whatever you command.” He winced at the slimy stickiness of his own hand. “But perhaps we ought to test out the bathing facilities before we try again.” 

“Always coming up with good ideas, Douglas,” mumbled Martin, snuggling a little closer, and clearly having no intention of moving any time soon. “But first I think regulations dictate letting the engines cool a little before—” 

Douglas put a halt to Martin’s nonsense with a kiss. “You’re ridiculous, Captain Crieff, and I love you.” 

His lover’s smiled response was blinding, even with the heavy eyelids of sexual satiation shielding the glare. “I love you too, Douglas.”


	13. Epilogue

Douglas and Martin had a low-key but important Christmas. The day itself was shared together, Martin staying at Douglas’s and helping put up a few festive decorations – something for which there’d been little time beforehand with so many holiday flights chartered and deliveries to complete – before allowing Douglas to cook him into a food coma. They’d finished the night with Martin curled on the sofa with a dram of scotch while Douglas serenaded him with carols at the piano by the light of the twinkling tree lights. It was all quite sickeningly romantic. 

Christmas Eve, though, was spent with Martin’s family. His mother was gently welcoming and careful not to make a fuss, knowing, Douglas thought, that Martin would get agitated and defensive – but she was clearly delighted her youngest was happy and in love. 

Simon had been slightly more subdued than the last time they met, but still faintly self-important and puffed up, and prone, as the day and his alcohol intake wore on, to one-upping his brother. Present as boyfriend, rather than friend, this time, Douglas felt only the smallest temptation to defend Martin. For all his bragging, Simon was far too self-involved to bother with Martin’s love life, so Douglas contented himself with watching Martin in his natural habitat; amused and admiring the way he became endearingly self-righteous and desperate to boast. Instead of joining in with a verbal defence of Martin’s honour, Douglas took to soothing Martin’s bluster with soft touches and a reassuring arm around his shoulders. A gentle reminder of his support and love. 

Caitlin was gruff and irritated. But that seemed to be her default setting. She was obviously happy for and protective of her little brother, casually warning Douglas, as she sailed past with a platter of roast vegetables, that she'd taken his licence records and would make his life hell if he hurt him. Douglas had simply nodded in acceptance and continued helping her husband lay the table. They’d got on like a house on fire after that. 

But it was Boxing Day that was special. Because Emily came down to spend the week with Douglas – and Martin. There were gifts for everyone, Martin and Douglas having saved theirs for when Emily could be there so she could have a _proper_ Christmas _twice_. "The only good thing to come from a broken home," claimed Douglas. 

“Not the only thing,” Martin had corrected him, pressing a kiss against his lips and drawing a pained complaint from Emily. Though her pleas for them to "Cut it out, _pleeeaase_ ," had been cut off as her father thrust another parcel into her hands without relinquishing his grip on Martin. 

She was delighted with the goggles Douglas had bought her – a very similar set to the ones they had once bought Martin. But she was even more thrilled with the leather aviator cap Martin had bought her. 

“Very Amelia Earhart,” Douglas drawled approvingly as she tightened the chin strap and adjusted the goggles over her eyes. He tugged Martin in for a quick hug as Emily scampered off to admire herself in the hall mirror. “Nicely done, Captain.” 

Martin flushed. “You don’t mind? I thought it would go perfectly with the goggles…” 

“Martin, she’s delighted, of course I don’t mind. It’s perfect.” He released him with a smirk, picking up a final parcel. “And…” 

Emily had come in a few minutes later to find Martin gazing moon-eyed at the sheepskin-lined flight jacket Douglas had just given him. 

“Ooh, Dad! That’s awesome. Put it on, Martin!” She jigged from foot to foot as Martin gingerly slipped the jacket on; cautiously gentle as if it were made of the finest, tearable silk. 

Or as if Douglas might take it back. 

Before he had a chance to go and examine his own reflection, Emily had shoved a brightly coloured package in his hands. 

It was a white scarf. Martin looked at it blankly, until Douglas pulled it out of the paper remnants with a teasing huff and threaded it round his neck. 

“Go on then, Biggles. Go and admire yourself.” He gave Martin a little push between the shoulders. “And don’t forget your co-pilot!” 

He sent “Amelia” off after him and could hear two sets of awestruck giggles from the hallway as he stopped to gather away curling ribbon and tattered wrapping. 

 

***

 

Martin felt like an idiot. Wandering around the marquee, over-hot in his lined jacket and scarf, goggles pushed up into his hair. Everyone else was in T-shirts, enjoying the balmy summer breeze as they waited for the show to begin. He was tempted to take the jacket off, but as he turned back to their table, tray laden with orange juice and sandwiches, he caught Douglas’s eye and saw him tilt his head to where Emily, decked out in her miniature flight suit, goggles and cap, was excitedly chatting to a young woman, gesticulating wildly. 

Martin manoeuvred his way through the crowd and set the tray down on their table, sitting next to Douglas who was still watching his daughter with a fond but cautious eye. 

“…And Martin’s even got a _real_ flight jacket…” he heard, as Emily turned in their direction, the woman grinning in amusement. 

“So he has. And very nice, too.” The woman looked him up and down. 

Certain he was already pink from the heat, Martin felt a fiery blush of embarrassment burn across his cheeks and down his throat as he self-consciously adjusted the scarf at his throat. 

“Daddy bought him that.” 

Utterly guileless, Emily walked the woman through Martin’s outfit as she had obviously done her own, while Martin cursed the decision he’d made to surprise Emily by dressing up for their day out. 

“And the matching goggles, too?” The woman was laughing now. Martin wanted to die. 

A distant roar was his reprieve as the air show was about to start. As the crowd shuffled around them, the woman took her leave, heading back to where, Douglas pointed, she had her own family, complete with mini-pilots: two little boys in matching pilot’s caps and T-shirts with “Captain” emblazoned across the front. 

One eye firmly on Emily, who had wriggled her way around the other side of their table to stand at the opening of the marquee, gazing up at the sky, Doulas leaned over and loosened Martin’s scarf, letting in a welcome draft as he pushed a kiss against his damp throat. “You want to be careful, Martin. I think that woman was looking to add another captain to her collection.” 

Martin huffed a still-embarrassed laugh, pulling the scarf off entirely and unzipping the jacket, now Emily was focused elsewhere. He flapped his T-shirt to waft some cool air into his clothes. “I don’t think anyone is too impressed with a grown man playing dress-ups, Douglas.” 

The rumble of engines grew closer and Douglas shifted to better catch the view outside, but not before tapping Martin’s hand. “You’re mistaken, sir. _Emily_ thinks you’re brilliant. And she’s not the only one. Although,” he dropped his voice to a sinful whisper and ran his fingers through the section of Martin’s mop of hair that wasn’t tangled around the goggles, “I suspect my appreciation is a little more X-rated.” 

Martin’s shocked laugh was swallowed up by the first fly-by. 

 

Later on, Douglas made Martin put his costume back on properly and had his two favourite pilots pose by the World War II fighter jets for a series of photos … which he sent off to be printed in era-appropriate sepia so they could hang proudly in both the living room and Emily’s bedroom. 

Still later…after Emily had gone to bed… Douglas took pains to peel Martin back out of his costume and establish just how handsome and not ridiculous the outfit made him look. 

 

And if the goggles found a new home in the bedside table, rather than on the top of Martin’s computer monitor at home, well, that was their little secret. 

 

It was one less thing for Martin to have to shift when he moved in officially a month later.


End file.
